


could have gone better (roll up in my sheets)

by Maust



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bit of dirty talk, Harry and Marcel are the same person :), M/M, Swearing, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:35:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maust/pseuds/Maust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcel is the person that nobody notices enough to hate. He’s just… there. Of course, Louis Tomlinson notices. And he doesn’t exactly know... how to stop. Noticing. </p>
<p>So Louis Tomlinson, star of the soccer team and former prom date of THE Eleanor Calder, asks Harry Marcel Styles to the upcoming senior prom.</p>
<p>In retrospect, his timing could’ve been better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	could have gone better (roll up in my sheets)

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, people asked for Marcel/Louis? Marcel is Harry, Harry is Marcel, no threesomes here. Just a disclaimer. :) Feedback is always, always, ALWAYS welcome. No beta, not much self-editing, so if you see any mistakes/typos/whatever, please let me know. And enjoy!
> 
> Cross-posted from Tumblr, where I'm justshippinglarry. Hit me up, broskis. You know. If you want to. *Hides in a corner*

The universe, Marcel thinks, has a sucky sense of timing.

Any other day would have been fine. Would have been great. Um. But right now? Right now does not work. He’s sitting in the bathroom with a D+ on a test he needed an A on, his butt is soggy, his sandwich smells weird, and he almost broke his glasses—again—because of those jerks. The last thing he needs is Louis bloody Tomlinson. The absolute last thing. After all, the reason Marcel tries so hard to be invisible is because of people like Tomlinson’s friends. He glowers at the door and flushes the test, then slumps to the floor and glares at the door. Tomlinson, of all people, should know better than to try and talk to him. They haven’t spoken in years. Of course, that hasn’t stopped Marcel from watching him, but again—Marcel is the guy that nobody sees. There’s a reason for that. 

Tomlinson raps on the door for the third time in a minute. “Hey, uh, Martian? Sorry, shit, Marcel? You in there?”

He sniffs and swipes at his nose, hating the way his voice quavers. “Ehm, yeah. Um, could you go away?”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

Marcel feels his face get hot. “You said that last week, and then your friend stole my grape juice. And he didn’t even enjoy it, just chucked it in the trash. Then I got in trouble for littering, because he missed.”

“Er, um, sorry about that.”

Marcel sighs, and his breath rattles. “Can you… go away? Please?”

“Can’t do that, mate. Sorry.”

“Why not?”

“I, uh. Gosh, you know, uh. That is an excellent question.”

Marcel uncurls himself from the floor and stands, his legs wobbling under him. He clutches his books, his phone dangling from one hand. “Look, can you just leave me alone?” He rests his back on the door. “I don’t know you, and you barely know me. Can we just keep it that way?”

Lou—Tomlinson makes this little confused noise, and Marcel can already picture the irritation that always goes with it. He’s not lying when he says he doesn’t know Louis—he shouldn’t know Louis, but everyone knows Louis Tomlinson. Scored the winning goal against the Shitty Kitties, and then a second one just to rub it in. Took Eleanor Calder to prom last year, the most beautiful girl in the entire senior—then junior—class. Marcel sits in the back of every class and is on the Math Team. There isn’t much more to be said. This is high school, after all.

Tomlinson’s calling his name again, and Marcel starts. “Sorry, what?”

“I said, I’d like to get to know you.”

Marcel laughs and slams his head against the door. “You might think you do, but you don’t. You know that cracked window in the gym? The one no one goes near because all the glass will fall out?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you hear they blocked it up?”

Tomlinson sounds frustrated. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Marcel shrugs, his head rolling to hit the hanger on the back of the stall door. “The window’s me. You’re the person that stays far, far away, because of the cardboard we like to call basic human nature.”

Louis takes a shaky breath, and Marcel listens warily. “I know that you sit in the back of the classroom because you’re scared of people seeing you for who you are. Your sister picks you up from school, but you don’t want her to worry about you, so you wear long sleeves and bracelets to cover the bruises. You sprained your ankle two months ago but were too stubborn to take the escalator, so you’re still limping, even though you try to hide it. Last April, it rained, and you laughed and started dancing, even though the teachers were trying to herd everyone else inside. You looked… free. You looked happy. And I thought that I wanted to be there with you, but I was too scared.”

“You’re still scared.”

“Not anymore, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Look, I’m sorry. I was a bastard for letting them treat you that way. I knew it was happening, even if I never saw it right out. It was still there.”

“They’re probably still laughing at me. Martian, remember?”

“Damn, Marcel…”

“Could you not call me that?”

“What?”

Marcel starts fiddling with the corners of his notebook, ripping the tops of pages off, rolling them up and throwing them in the toilet. “Could you… not call me that? I hate my name.”

“Well, what d’you want me to call you?”

“I used to go by Harry.”

There’s a long pause, and Marcel hears his heart in his ears, his fingers glued to the paper. Tomlinson says, “I know.”

“You remember? You didn’t even know who I was.” He continues tearing.

“Yeah. I’ve always been a decent actor, haven’t I?”

“Then why’d you take up footie?” 

“’S a bit gay, isn’t it? Acting?”

“Maybe you should try it sometime.”

“What, being gay? Already there, mate. Harry." 

Louis’ voice rolls his name around luxuriously, and Mar—Harry wants to gasp. It feels right, like Louis’ plugging a hole he didn’t know had gouged itself into his chest. Then he processes the rest of Louis’ statement. “Did you just… come out to me?”

He hears a rasp of cloth as Louis shrugs. “Here’s as good as any place, right? Besides, I, uh… I wanted to ask you something.”

Harry rips more pages, then says, hesitantly, “Yeah?”

“D’you… d’you want to go to prom with me?” 

Harry shoves off the door and yanks the door open, furious. “What the hell d’you—”

Louis falls on top of him with a grunt, and his things go everywhere. His phone barely misses the toilet, and he feels his heart nearly stop.

Then it really does stop, because Louis Tomlinson’s pressed all along his front, and they’re pressed up against the wall, the toilet paper digging into Harry’s side. Harry feels his face go hot, but he can’t move. Louis’s staring at his mouth, his eyes, his chest, and then his mouth again, and they’re so close Harry feels Louis’ breath on his nose.

Louis leans down, carefully, and presses his mouth to Harry’s. He leans back, and he looks terrified, his eyes wide and his lips drawn.

Harry’s mouth is slack, so he stares up at Louis. When he tries to draw back, face crimson with shame, Harry grabs for his neck and kisses him.

Or, he tries. His braces jam into Louis’ nose, and Louis yelps, rubbing at it.

Harry says, “Shit, sorry,” and Louis’ eyes go, if possible wider.

“Did you just—” He cuts himself off and dives onto Harry’s mouth. His hands trace their way down Harry’s arms, and fumble at his trousers. He jerks back and drops to his knees. “Damn zipper,” he hisses. His breath hits Harry’s navel underneath his white button-down, and he shivers.

“Tomlinson.” Louis abruptly shoves Harry’s pants and boxers to his knees, and Harry nearly loses his train of thought. Louis licks his lips and reluctantly drags his eyes away. He appears half-distracted until he starts staring at Harry’s eyes, which feels like he’s walked into an oven. “Tomlinson.”

“What?”

“Did you lock the door?”

Louis grins at him, and Harry thinks, oh. That’s how he got Eleanor. He ignores the jealousy clawing at his stomach, and hisses, “Tomlinson.”

Louis rolls his eyes, says, “Watch this,” and dives down. Harry groans as Louis nuzzles his thigh with his nose, and looks up at him, cocky half-smirk wedged on his face. “Anyone ever done this to you before, Marce? Harry?”

Harry shakes his head, and slams his head into the wall.

He hears a sharp intake of breath, and shudders all over when it hits his bare skin. Jesus Christ, Louis’ mouth is right there. He wants so bad he can barely think. “C’mon, Tomlinson,” he pleads. “C’mon." 

Louis laughs, and Harry almost loses it.

“I’m going to fucking come if you don’t hurry up,” he hisses.

“God, I love your mouth.”

“I’d love yours a lot more if it were on my cock.” Harry’s voice cracks once, but he’s too turned on to care. His body is definitely invested in these proceedings. He wants Louis, and he wants Louis now.

He tells Louis this, and Louis laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and then stops abruptly. “You called me Louis.”

“Er, sor—ahhh, ah, oh, my god, oh my god, your mouth.”

Louis laughs, and it feels like Harry’s getting sucked into warp six, or a black hole, the vibrations shuddering all the way into his spine.

He starts babbling, trying to distract himself. He tells Louis about Louis’ eyes, Louis’ mouth, Louis’ face, tells him how he noticed Louis in sixth grade and never really looked away. “Oh, fuck, right there, dammit. And, and, and you said that you hated Kirk and loved Spock, and I thought you were the stupidest bastard in the world because who the hell hates James Kirk? But you did, and you argued with me, and your eyes—fuck, your eyes are blue, have I told you that, blue like the moon. God, I love your eyes. I love you too, have I told you that? In seventh grade, you shared your muffin with me. You don’t even remember it, but I’d just broken my glasses, and my stepdad yells at me when I do that. I don’ t do it anymo—do that, do that again, that felt—oh, my god. Oh my god, I love you, I love you, I love you, shit, this is going to be awkward in English class—”

Louis pulls off and breathes, “Hey, I love you, too. Kinda obvious, don’t you think?”

Harry stares at him as Louis takes one look at his face, breathes, “Shit,” and dives down just in time to keep Harry from coming all over his black Avengers t-shirt.

Harry comes back from his high to find Louis’ mouth in his neck, wanking himself off into his hand. Blearily, he cups Louis’ face in his hand, stroking his cheek and watching as the little hairs there brush his fingers. “Lou.”

Louis shudders and comes all over his own hand. He wipes it on the toilet paper, and leans off Harry’s neck to wrap it up and chuck it in the toilet. Then he leans back against Harry and sighs into his neck. 

Harry breathes, and closes his eyes. Then they slam open. “Did you hear the bell?”

Louis snorts, eyes closed. “Bell, shmell, lunch is an hour. You came so fast, there’s no way the bell rang while we were busy.”

Harry stiffens, and Louis strokes his cheek. “Relax, Hazza.”

He doesn’t relax, breath catching in his throat. “Hazza?”

“Shit, sorry, Marcel. I mean, Harry. I mean—”

“Harry’s fine.” He pauses. “Haz is… ‘s fine. Was just startled." 

Louis leans back weakly, and says softly, “I guess, er, I guess you’re right. About the bell.”

As Louis steps away, he slaps on the cockiness, and saunters towards the door. It’s a complete change from who he was a moment ago, but it’s shaky. Harry can see the cracks, now, see how Louis stumbles as he walks and glances just a bit too long as he throws a wink over his shoulder and says, “I’ll see you at prom.”

Harry slams his head back into the wall and bites at his lip, sliding down against the wall. He stares at his books on the ground, and doesn’t even bother pretending he remembers where he left his backpack. He just chews at his own mouth and tries not to cry, because he just gave his virginity up to Louis Tomlinson, of all people. He said that he loved him and now Louis’s gone, but he just told someone the secret he’s been hiding since he was twelve years old. Louis obviously doesn’t love him back, he wouldn’t leave someone he loves. He would at least come back, if he loved Harry at all. And now he’s going to tell the whole school, going to completely ruin his life for forever, and—

Then Louis pokes his head back in, and Harry glances up, not believing his eyes. Louis shuffles up to him hesitantly, and kneels down. He presses a soft kiss to Harry’s lips, then whispers, “Uh, for what it’s worth? I, uh. I notice you. I think I know you, too. Well enough to… um… to, maybe, to love you?” Louis sweeps his hair behind his ear, and says, “I mean, I don’t care if you call yourself Harry, or Marcel, or Rudolph the curly-haired reindeer. I think… I think I’ve loved you for a long time. 

Relief, Harry realizes, is sharp like oxygen. He presses his lips to Louis’, and laughs giddily. “Well, I’ll see you at prom, right?” He kisses him again, and braces his hands on Louis’ shoulders.

“Right.” Louis presses back against Harry’s mouth, tongue slipping over Harry’s in a wordless gesture that seems to flash heat into the marrow of his bones. He pulls away for oxygen, and says shakily, “Well, prom’s a big night, right?”

“Mm, yeah.” Harry reaches up for that soft, soft hair, and holds Louis’ head in place while he tastes that soft, sweet skin under Louis’ ear.

“Right.” Louis’ voice vibrates through his throat, tickling Harry’s lips. “Um, maybe we should… practice?" 

“Mm.” He works his way down to Louis’ collarbone, and licks it thoughtfully.

Louis’ voice shakes out of him. “Right. Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Shut up and kiss me, you fool,” Harry whispers into his skin. He presses his lips to Louis’ neck, jaw, and then lips.

They get in another round before the bell rings. And hey, practice makes perfect, right? And the school got over it eventually—after all, as long as Louis puts goals in the net, the team’s behind him 100%. The rest of the school, though they’re not waving pride flags or going to parades, follows their lead. Louis proudly gives Harry his varsity jacket, and Harry’s there when he tries out for—and gets—Danny Zucko in the spring musical. And hey, turns out that the drama teacher’s pretty good at fixing windows, especially the boarded up window that nobody ever wanted to touch. 

The upside of all this is that by the time prom rolls around, they’re completely fucking pros.

Harry giggles to himself, and thinks, Pun absolutely intended. 

“Haz?” Louis mumbles. “You’re doing the laugh again.”

Harry wraps him in his arms, and pulls the covers over their head. “It’s seven in the morning, Lou. Go to sleep.”

“M’kay.” Louis burrows into his chest. Then he says, “Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah, Lou?”

“I love you.”

Harry kisses the top of his head. “I love you too.”

"Haz?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Go to sleep." 

Harry smiles, and closes his eyes.


End file.
